


The Yawning Grave

by QuietLula



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Flashbacks, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:39:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4211856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuietLula/pseuds/QuietLula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Count Odo and the Wanderer Sinric have a conversation. Ragnar has a breakthrough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Yawning Grave

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place during episode 309.

Standing atop the towering, sun-warmed, stone walls of the surrounding citadel, Count Odo could peer across the water and see the heathens’ camp in the sea spray haze. Even from the distance of where he stood, he could make out the smoke from burning camp fires and see a convoy leading a wagon full of something undistinguishable. It looked as if a group of young men were playing some sort of game, running back and forth. The savages were moving about in that relaxed, aggressive way these men seemed to carry themselves. Acting like they were on vacation, instead of miles and miles away from their home, here to terrorize an entire city.

Not taking his eyes off the scene across the water, Count Odo, inclining his head slightly in the direction of the closest soldier, requested in a voice that really held more subtle, inarguable demand than anything, “Bring me the prisoner. The odd wanderer.”

The soldier immediately took off to fulfill the order. 

Within minutes, Sinric, being practically dragged by a soldier, came into view, tripping over his feet at the pushing, rough handling of the guard. 

“Leave us.” The Count ordered the surrounding soldiers. 

Count Odo carefully evaluated the small man standing nervously before him, running his eyes from the top of the man’s blond head to the bottom of his uncovered feet. Strange, this fellow. Odo could see that he was rather feminine and flighty, but he surmised there was a hidden astuteness about the little man. As though this wanderer had figured out how to get by in the world using no one else’s terms but his own. 

When Odo and the other soldiers had captured Sinric and Earl Siegfried, it had been bizarre to see Sinric with the Norsemen. Sinric was like a peacock strutting around wolves that had been breed on raw meat.

These wolves, these Northmen, seemed born for war. 

But, from Count Odo’s experience, one fought and lived or one fought and died, no matter where you came from. That was just the way it went.

Without preamble, Count Odo demanded, "Tell me of your barbarian king, this King Ragnar."

“I do not know him well, sir. He is not _my_ king. I serve no king.” Sinric stammered, cagey. 

“You have spoken with him though. You know something of the man. Is he just an eager, stupid dog looking to make a name for himself by going on an impractical suicide mission?”

Count Odo believed it was hard to know the true reasons a man did anything. Maybe, having been weaned on tales of glory and heroes, this king wanted fame. Maybe it was to please his gods. Perhaps this Ragnar Lothbrok simply lived for blood lust. 

It had seemed, right from the beginning, that this wild man with his army of savage warriors from the North was not leaving without a fight.

If the stories of these Northmen were to be believed, they were breed for battle from the time they were still on the tit, transformed into insane beasts during a fight and drank the blood of their enemies. 

Sinric, for the first time during their conversation, looked up and met the Count’s eyes with unnerving, self-satisfied candor; it almost looked like he was bragging. “No. He is no untried puppy, sir. Just ask the King of Northumbria. He lost a brother to the hands of that Norseman. Ragnar Lothbrok was a farmer that rose to the rank of King. He should not be underestimated.” 

A former farmer! Count Odo could not connect the image of the crazed, blood soaked man he had seen hacking through armed soldiers, along the very wall on which Count Odo now stood, with a man that planted crops in the soft dirt with weathered, composed hands. 

“Why is he here?” Odo looked out over the whipping sea, listening to the water beat against the piers and rock barricades below.

“I do not know. But I heard it whispered that he wants to seize this city to honor his dead friend." 

Count Odo jerked his head around to stare at the long-haired man, eyes wide and mouth nearly gaping. All this because this King Ragnar wanted to pay tribute to a friend!?

It made little sense, the Count thought, astonished. 

Odo was no expert on love, or friendship even when it came down to it, his desires were particular and his ambitions left little room for trust, but he knew enough about relationships to know that the lengths to which Ragnar was willing to go, proved this man he lost was no mere friend. 

Count Odo was from Frankia, for God’s sake. The land of wine and romance. He grew up hearing anecdotes of tragic star-crossed lovers and legends of passionate heroes avenging their loves almost daily. He knew a romantic tale when he heard one. 

Who would build 100 ships, sail across an ocean, lay siege to an impenetrable city, and was willing to get himself killed for a _friend_? A fool, that was who, if you asked Odo. 

A fool in love. 

But, even being a Christian, he was not one to judge someone on their preferences, having his own deviant streak and since these were barbarians after all, what could he expect?

After the Count had recovered his ability for speech, he asked, with wide, disbelieving eyes that ogled at the tiny pixie looking man, "You mean to tell me that this campaign against Paris is all for his lost lover?" 

“That may be so.” Sinric gave a flamboyant wave of his hand in the direction of the Norsemen’s camp, as though he were displaying the mind-blowing end result to a magic trick before a skeptical, enraptured crowd. 

Hmm. Well, that was certainly a surprise. It did not necessarily change Count Odo’s opinion of the heathen king, but it did make him take note. Maybe he had miscalculated this dangerous, extreme man.

A man who would do all this for love, what would he do for hate? 

Count Odo made a habit of being discerning. He decided it was probably wise not to anger this King of the North. 

The people of Paris were dying, in battle and from diseases due to being kept closed up in tight quarters for so long, and the food supplies were already running low. The City was cracking; she needed rest. An adjournment, at least, to the constant battering she had been taking the last couple of months. 

It was time to talk to the Emperor and try to convince the cowardly heir of the Great Charlemagne to offer terms in order to appease this mad King Ragnar and hopefully get him to leave Paris in peace.

 

Across the water, Ragnar laid in bed staring at the roof of his tent, sucking in hitching, raw, deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. 

His empty, shiny eyes stared into an unknown, distant darkness. 

It felt like whatever fibers that kept his body knitted together were about to fray and snap apart. He felt like he was going to shatter or explode or maybe just disintegrate at any minute. He was trying his best not to just completely come apart at the seams. 

But his chest was so heavy and his throat was so tight and his mind was so tormented and his heart was so sad. 

It was taking everything in him not to scream, weep, thrash about, get up and kill the crazy, religious zealot responsible for his pain and then set the fucking world on fire. 

Ragnar laid still, he kept breathing, his heart kept pumping blood, the world did not burn and time continued moving.

He thought of Paris. 

When Ragnar had finally gazed upon the interior of the city of Paris, in the mists of battle while deflecting deadly blows, he was stopped in his tracks. In those few, slow motion seconds, his eyes saw the same beautiful vision Athelstan's eyes had once seen, those cobbled streets Athelstan had once walked down, the church Athelstan had visited; the thought of it nearly made him cry. His chest swelled, stomach dropped, and shiver bumps had broken out all over his body. He was rocked to the core.

For a man that was so desperate for any connection to his lost love, it had been like being struck by a spiritual bolt of white lightning. It nearly blew him apart. 

He had jumped over that wall without any fear, only sweet, blessed relief. 

He had not counted on waking up. 

When he did awake, eyes popping open and gasping for air like he had broken out from under the surface of black, suffocating water, he had looked up to the darkening sky, registered where he was and felt nothing but resignation. 

Sucking in wet sounding breaths, his torso full of dull, throbbing pain, he had had no choice but to struggle to his feet and carry on living. 

He floated around like a wrath. A very determined wrath. 

He had a point to prove and he was proving it to a man that he had never intentionally lied to before. He was not about to start now. 

Paris though, had drawn up its gate, closed up its harbor, perched soldiers behind its high stone walls and said keep away. 

Ragnar had never taken well to being told what to do, to being crossed. 

Paris sat on its aloof island and defied him. Well, Ragnar thought uncharitably, for all he cared at this point, now it could sit on its dazzling island and burn. His frustration and pain made him feel spiteful and indignant. 

He was going to get inside that huge, walled, beautiful city, walk along its streets, see the inside of that church. Even if just for a moment. Even if it killed him. 

Ragnar acknowledged he was being single-minded almost beyond reason. He did not care. He was going to do it. No other option. He just had not figured out how yet. 

These days, Ragnar felt like he could barely think straight. His mind was so clouded with grief that he found it difficult to hang on to a thought for more than a fleeting moment. Or really, to even care about anything that did not have to do with Athelstan.

Everything looked hazy, muted and obscured to his vision now, no brightness, no light. Like a candle had been brusquely whooshed out and the room plunged into blackness, forcing him to shuffle around blindly with his hands out in front of him, trying to find his way through the petrifying and unresponsive darkness. 

He wanted, so badly, to just let go. To sink into a black, silent oblivion. For the anguish to end. 

His grief was a howling, vicious animal. Snarling, clawing and churning inside him. He built a fortress around it, trying to keep it from swallowing him but also in order to allow no one to touch it, but him. 

He did not want comfort or sorrow from well-meaning people that did not understand what this constant, hollow, throbbing pain in his chest felt like. 

He just wanted Athelstan. 

This unending ache was like nothing he had ever felt before. He could not eat for he had no appetite. Did not want to talk to anyone for he had nothing to say. Did not want to sleep for when he did he dreaded waking. 

Waking was the worst because for a brief second, he would not remember that he was now alone, but then it would strike him all over again. Sharp and unbearable. He could not get away from the knowledge that his life was now altered irreparably. 

Ragnar knew that this was not the kind of thing one simply moved on from, got over, forgot about. He understood that with disquieting lucidity now. So he did not even try. He just absorbed it. Let it fill him up, re-routing the pathways from his organs to his brain. Let his grief carve him into a new broken form. Re-teaching his body how to carry on living in this new agonizing darkness. 

That miserable, aching void of grief in his chest was like a painful sore that he could not stop poking. He kept at it because it reminded him that he had been alive once, instead of the walking, talking shell he was now. 

The backs of his eyelids seemed to be imprinted with the image of a small man with wide, blue eyes, brown curly hair and pale skin. 

Ragnar was haunted by Athelstan. 

In moments of utter desolation, when he was so desperate for one bloody moment away from the misery, for some relief from the crushing, pounding pain that had taken up residence inside him, that had nothing to do with the physical shape of his body, he would angrily think that he wished he could go back in time and erase Athelstan from his life. 

Maybe then he would be able to take a breath and stop hoping, with each one, it was his last. 

Most of the time though, he obsessively reveled in the sweet thought of Athelstan. It was the only thing that kept him going forward each endless day.

Ragnar had gone from having all of Athelstan to now having none of him. Oh, but how Ragnar was haunted by the ghosts of the little Englishman. Reminders were everywhere. Memories overwhelmed him, coming unbidden into his mind. He let himself drown in them.

_Ragnar and Athelstan were down on the beach. Athelstan was teaching Ragnar the written alphabet. They were using sticks to draw the letters in the sand. Athelstan would have Ragnar trace Athelstan’s indentations then smooth the sand clean and ask Ragnar to write the letter on his own from memory. Many times, Ragnar recalled, he had purposefully made mistakes and pretended to not catch on quickly just so Athelstan would place his smaller hand over Ragnar's and guide the Norseman’s movements in order to make the correct shapes._

_"Like this, Ragnar. A straight line then attach the circle.”_

_Ragnar was not paying attention to Athelstan’s instructions, too busy sneaking sideways glances out of the corners of his eyes in order to catch Athelstan’s charming look of concentration. Athelstan’s hand was warm and soft where it was wrapped around Ragnar’s. Ragnar focused all his attention on the feel of their skin touching._

_Ragnar had let their lessons go on for weeks longer than necessary, even after he could secretly write the letters backward and forward, just so he could have an excuse to be near the little, intelligent man and his warm, soft hands._

The memories came one after another.

_Ragnar was sitting on a rocky cliff overlooking the fjord and Kattegat below. From afar, he observed the building of the ships that would take him to Paris. Just thinking about the upcoming adventure made his stomach somersault excitedly._

_Hearing a rustling sound behind him, he turned and took in Athelstan coming into view. Athelstan ambled over to Ragnar and sat down beside him near the edge of the rocky precipice._

_They simply sat in comfortable silence for a while, taking in the scenery, watching the birds fly overhead, listening to the sounds of the water lapping against the rocks below, surveying the distant, small figures bustling about near the village shore. The hot sun was high overhead, but there was a cooling breeze that floated off the salty sea._

_Eventually, Athelstan reached over and ran his hand along the top of Ragnar’s head gently. Since Ragnar had cut off his ponytail, in an irritated, decisive huff because he was finally sick of the upkeep, Athelstan did this often, he enjoyed feeling the prickly, short hairs tickle over his palm._

_“Hello.” Athelstan whispered, absentminded and hushed._

_“What are you doing?” Ragnar inquired, eyes still cast to the coastline in the distance, not really caring what Athelstan did just as long as Athelstan was near._

_“Looking for you.” Athelstan revealed distractedly. Then, while still rubbing Ragnar’s head, he said, “Do you think you will get more tattoos?”_

_The question was such a random non sequitur, it made Ragnar smile._

_Ragnar shrugged, “What should I get?”_

_Athelstan returned his hand to his own lap and said, “I don’t know. Something to remind you of your children, perhaps.” Athelstan pursed his lips, thinking._

_“Oh! Or my name.” He kidded, leaning over and giving Ragnar a little bump on the shoulder with his own, jostling the larger man._

_“You are already tattooed on my bones. You own me, stupid.” Ragnar lightheartedly bantered back, he had meant it to tease, even though the statement was true, but when he caught Athelstan’s wide, glazed over eyes, blushing cheeks and bashful, amazed smile, it stopped any more forthcoming wisecracks._

_A tender, worshiping look swept over Athelstan’s face; he silently leaned over, closed his eyes and simply placed a lingering kiss against Ragnar’s temple._

_When Athelstan had again sat upright, Ragnar turned his head fully to gaze at the dark haired man._

_Ragnar thought Athelstan looked heartbreakingly beautiful. Ragnar could barely stand to look at him for fear his heart would stop. He cast his eyes out over the ledge before him and took a steadying breath, trying to force the muscles in his chest that had gone suddenly tight to loosen. "I love you. I love you. I love you," his heart beat the words, but they did not cross his lips._

_When he again had control over his wayward heart, Ragnar stood up and brushed the dirt and grass from his pants. “Come on.” He said, looking down mischievously and putting out his hand to help Athelstan to his feet._

_Athelstan put a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun and looked at Ragnar, head tilted back._

_“Where are we going?” Athelstan questioned, putting the hand not blocking out the rays of sunshine into Ragnar’s._

_“To have sex.” Ragnar wiggled his eyebrows and licked his lips wickedly._

_Athelstan laughed. It was like that ever since they first slept together. Ragnar could not keep his hands off Athelstan. Ragnar would push Athelstan against a tree, sneak up on him and hide them behind a curtain, attack him with kisses and caresses as Athelstan was doing mundane activities throughout the day._

_“Don’t you ever get enough?” Athelstan joked, his voice incredulous._

_“Of you? No.” Ragnar said it with a scandalized, precise tone, like Athelstan must be slow in the head for even asking. Ragnar’s outstretched hand tugged impatiently on Athelstan’s smaller one and he pulled Athelstan up from his seated position._

_They began to pick their way down the hillside slowly, Ragnar turning around to glace back at Athelstan frequently, making sure he was okay, holding out his hand to steady the smaller man and grabbing Athelstan’s elbow to help him down particularly steep sections of rock._

_Athelstan just adoringly smiled, he could have easily climbed down the craggy slope on his own without incident, he had just gotten up it alone after all, but Ragnar could not help the protective impulse to take care of his dear, sweet friend and Athelstan, as usual, indulged the attentive Norseman._

Thor’s balls! He had been so desperately, head-over-heels, idiotically in love with Athelstan that it was nearly embarrassing. It was not like he planned it or decided to suddenly fall in love. Ragnar more like tripped into love with the little man. It had happened so gradually that before Ragnar knew what hit him, he looked over at Athelstan and realized that he had been cluelessly stumbling into love with Athelstan all along and it was too late to go back. The man was already interwoven into Ragnar's heart.

Now, it felt like Ragnar had been born knowing how to love Athelstan. 

When Ragnar was a younger man, he would never have thought that a quiet, gentle, intellectual introvert, a man brought up in a Christian monastery, singing hymns, writing scripture, and praying to a watchful God would one day be his kindred spirit.

Ragnar had never met anyone like Athelstan. The little Englishman was a scholar and scribe; he had traveled, was intelligent and loved learning as much as Ragnar. 

Ragnar had been fascinated by everything about Athelstan. The things that made him different and the things that made him the same.

Ragnar thought of their times together and missed everything. 

Ragnar missed the way Athelstan was so easy to blush, his shy smiles and quick wit, his crooked front teeth, that he was so thoughtful, how Athelstan would always laugh at Ragnar’s dumb jokes and that he was the only person that could talk Ragnar out of a temper. 

Ragnar missed staying up late into the night talking and doing other things that made a fire spark low in Ragnar’s belly just thinking of it, how Athelstan was the only one that could beat Ragnar in tafl, the way Athelstan’s hair smelled, how his sleepy face looked so precious first thing in the morning and that the instep of his left foot was ridiculously ticklish. 

Ragnar missed how Athelstan could not eat strawberries because they made him break out into hives all over his body and for that reason he was extremely afraid of them. Ragnar had had the fruit banished from the royal kitchens in Kattegat because Athelstan would not even step foot into the room if he were under the suspicion that a strawberry was residing in it. 

Ragnar missed how brave and analytical Athelstan’s mind could be. That he would dare to question his own understanding of the nature of the world even though he was afraid of being lost spiritually, of not believing in the right divinity, or perhaps, at times, of not believing in anything divine at all. 

Ragnar had found it all endearing. He craved for just one more opportunity to tell Athelstan so. 

The memories triggered a pang of longing so powerful that Ragnar, lying sweating in his bed, began to shake all over.

Ragnar pondered how his heart did not shatter from wanting. 

He wanted a little man with eyes that reminded him of the swaying, soothing sea, pale skin that burned if out in the sun too long, dark unruly curls, a love for writing, and a fear of strawberries and the conflicting, unanswerable questions of his soul.

There was not enough language in the world for all the things Ragnar wanted.

He wanted to spend his days with Athelstan. In this life and the next. 

So, Ragnar supposed, he did not mind being haunted. For now, anyway.

But he could not stand to live with just memories forever. He was going to have to do something to ensure that he was able to see, touch and speak with the man that was tattooed on his bones again someday. 

His mind went back to a memory of kneeling on a hillside before a waterfall.

_“Our Father, who art in Heaven.”_

Ragnar grew up in a world dominated by violence. Where a man’s greatest triumph was to die an honorable death in battle in order to be selected to enter Valhalla and do it all over again. Endlessly.

When he was younger, Ragnar supposed he had enjoyed fighting as much as the next man. But with every passing year, he grew more and more weary of it. 

Ragnar had realized that to fight in a war, a man did not have to be smart. But in order to win a war and create peace, a man with intelligence and imagination was necessary. 

Now, Ragnar saw less glory in cleaving a skull than outsmarting an opponent using his wits alone. 

Maybe it was Athelstan’s intrinsically passive and diplomatic nature that had rubbed off on him. 

With Death breathing over his shoulder, Ragnar groped for the cross lying against his chest. He stroked the intricately designed, delicate metal lovingly. 

He thought about what he would lose. He thought about what he would gain.

Ragnar had once told Athelstan he would follow Athelstan wherever he went. Ragnar was not lying.

He gave a heavy sigh and thought fiercely, that if he went through with this, that Athelstan’s supposedly powerful, invisible God that lived in the sky had better hold up his end of the bargain. 

Because Ragnar was going to find a way back to Athelstan, one way or another. Gods and anyone else that stood in his way be damned. 

Ragnar was not willing to take no for an answer. Not from Paris. Not from his gods. Not from Athelstan’s God. 

As always, Ragnar had never taken well to being told what to do. 

Ragnar grew up believing only the gods knew each man’s fate. He drew in a resolute, controlled hiss of air, pulling it as deep into his aching body as he could, then slowly released it, and decided that for Athelstan, Ragnar was willing to tempt fate.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song of the same name by Lord Huron.
> 
> Comments, kudos and constructive criticisms are always welcome and very much appreciated.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
